


Hide your face (so the world will never find you)

by Andrina_Nightshade



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo has a dark past, Blindfolds, Book Influences, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Movie/musical influences, No Pregnancy, Phantom of the Opera meets Star Wars, Virgin Ben Solo, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), consenual groping in the dark, happily ever after guaranteed, inappropriate use of a red scarf, no weird incestuous overtones, non-consenual mask removal, some minor crack ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrina_Nightshade/pseuds/Andrina_Nightshade
Summary: Hanna City Opera House is rumoured to be haunted; unexplained accidents, threatening notes and a mysterious shadow in the mirror.But Rey never believed those stories. That is, until a mysterious violinist joins in her nightly practice. Very soon, she will discover the truth behind the so-called Opera Ghost.Phantom of the Opera meets Star Wars (Written for the Reylo Readers & Writers Let's Go to the Movies exchange)
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Temmin "Snap" Wexley, Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 26
Kudos: 25
Collections: Let's Go to the Movies - Reylo Readers & Writers Prompt Exchange





	1. The Mask in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mirror/gifts).



> Dear Twisted_Mirror:
> 
> As a self-confessed Phan as well as a Reylo, I was ecstatic when I saw this prompt. Thank you for submitting it! I had a blast (albeit an occasionally stressful one!) writing it.
> 
> I’ve been a bit naughty and based it off both the 2004 Movie, the Royal Albert Hall 25th Anniversary performance, and stolen some elements from the original novel, plus set it in the GFFA. 
> 
> Word of warning - aside from some basic piano, I am not a musician, but I have tried my best to ensure a degree of accuracy in my use of terminology.
> 
> I look forward to sharing it with you, and hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> (Special thanks to ReyloEndGame who kindly beta'd this fic and made a gorgeous mood board, and to Rey_Lo for her assistance in naming the story.)

After the applause has settled, and the Opera House has grown dark, after the costumes are folded away and the make-up washed off, when the cleaning droids buzz and sweep and polish the corridors, after the dancers and chorus and orchestra have have left for their homes (or the nearest open cantina), Rey lingers.

The rehearsal room is silent. Early mornings are filled with discordant sounds, a dreadful cacophony as she and the other musicians tune their instruments. Then, with a flick of the conductor droid’s baton, comes harmony. Well, usually… The second Chindinkalu flautist frequently misses his cue, and the Melodium sounds just a touch out of tune. But when the flaws are glossed over, their orchestra weaves a beautiful melody.

In between sessions, there is chatter and laughter; petty rivalries and grand romances play out as dramatically amongst the performers as on the libretto of the stage. 

Only after the performance, can Rey truly enjoy the silence.

Her harp is too large to cart home; and even if she could afford a decent sized speeder, she would fear jostling the instrument with every trip. No, she prefers to leave it secure in the Opera House each night.

And once everyone else has gone home, she likes to play.

“You’re staying behind?” Her foster sister Rose had said, incredulous, when Rey first shared her intent. “But what of the Ghost?”

Rey had scoffed. The ballerinas were idle gossips, and once Rose had been enfolded into their number she too had acquired that habit. Not every missing slipper or fallen set piece had to be the work of a malevolent spectre. But, Rey supposed, performers were by their nature prone to the theatric. A  _ mundane _ explanation would never do.

===============

Rey plucks a glissando on her harp. She purses her lips. A few strings have loosened in the hours since the performance; she supposes she could use the tuning function, but there is something satisfying about correcting it by the labour of her own hands. The instrument feels like an extension of herself - the voice that allows her to speak her true heart. 

Tongue between her teeth, she works for a few minutes to tighten the strings. She tests the harp again - every note perfect. Suddenly, the world melts away. She forgets the ache in her back, her fatigue, and ever worry that has ever plagued her. 

Music flows through her with every plucked string. No sheet music contains the notes; it is a melody that has existed in her mind since she could remember; soft as a lullaby, powerful as a thunderstorm. 

Almost as soon as the first note hits the air, as with every night, the familiar whine of a violin joins in. It entwines in perfect harmony with her own performance, filling the air above her, around, skittering across her nerves and speaking to her very soul.

The violinist does not join her. Not yet.

But one day soon he will.

==============

The first few nights of her nocturnal practice had been in solitude. Sometimes, she had felt the sensation of another’s eyes upon her: intense and burning.

Then, on the fourth night, she heard the first stirrings of the violin. Rey  _ had  _ been startled; her fingers had faltered, and she had called out into the darkness.

But the rehearsal room was empty; and no answer was forthcoming. She had packed up earlier than was her wont, wound the red scarf around her neck against the autumn chill, and left for home.

==============

“I think I heard a ghost at the Opera House tonight,” she tells her foster mother Maz over tea. 

By the time she arrived home, Rose was already abed. Normally, Rey would have crept into Rose’s room and woken her up to recount the night’s bizarre event. But something caused her hand to hesitate on the control panel of Rose’s bedroom door. Her foster-sister is not a gossip under normal circumstances. But a potential tidbit about the Opera Ghost might be too juicy to keep secret.

But Maz at least is discrete. Her foster mother had merely clucked fondly, and shook her wizened head. “Child, you’ve been hearing or seeing ghosts since the moment I found you.” This only elicited a groan from Rey. Maz had always seemed to her to be a witch - capable of staring into the depths of a person’s soul, of sensing things before they happened. Rey called it magic; Maz called it the Force.

And she had long insisted that Rey had it too.  _ “How else could you produce such beautiful music?” _ she would tell her foster daughter with a wink.

Rey had groused at the implication. She was an accomplished musician not at the command of some mythic power, but through years of intense study and practice, endless hours at her instrument until her hand cramped, and her fingers grew calloused. The Force had nothing to do with it.

“This wasn’t like that, Maz,” she says without heat. “I didn’t see anything. There was-” and she hesitates. Anyone other than Maz (and perhaps Rose) would declare her insane if she tried to articulate the events of the night. She rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “The room was empty, but there was someone else playing. A violin. It was accompanying me in perfect harmony.”

At first, Maz looks unperturbed. “Music, in an Opera House? Scandalous!” A barking laugh escapes her. But she sees the wistful look on her foster daughter's face, and her own expression sobers. “What piece?” she asks kindly.

“ _ My  _ melody,” Rey replies. At this, Maz’s eyes grow impossibly wide, and the creases in her wizened face deepen.

“I see. Then perhaps you _did_ hear a ghost after all.”

================

When Rey climbs into bed that night, huddled beneath the covers, her dreams are filled with the beautiful melody of a violin. 

She sees only the profile of the musician, but not his face. How she is so certain that they are male, she cannot articulate. But deep in her marrow, she just  _ knows _ .

Rey is not a short woman - she easily towers over Maz, and even Rose barely reaches her shoulder. But this man is taller still by at least a head, and broad too. His hair is dark, and she imagines it to be as soft as Cyrene silk beneath her fingers.

His hands - kriff, his  _ huge _ hands - nurse his instrument. A plucked string here, a tightened peg there. Passion radiates in his every gesture. 

And, when he lifts the violin to his chin and begins to play, something instinctive flares to life within Rey. 

That tune that has been in her mind all her life… no matter the praise Maz and Rose heaped on her as she played it, there was always something missing. Like only half of a whole.

As his fingers and bow pluck each note, she feels the music glide over her, warm and tender as a lover’s caress on bare skin. Her melody was never meant to be a solo piece. This man’s music, and hers, were always meant to entwine. 

All she needs now is to find her accompanist.

==============

Rehearsal finishes early the following day, and Rey has never been happier.

The day had gotten off to a miserable start when, around twenty minutes into dress rehearsal, two of the ballerinas had interrupted the tavern scene by running onto the stage and screaming that they had spotted the Opera Ghost. Madame Giry, the Lanai ballet mistress, had dragged them off. Although her subsequent scolding of them was loud enough to further disrupt rehearsal.

And then there were the falling set-pieces; the snapped string on first violinist Temmin Wexley’s instrument; and a dozen missed cues from the chorus. By the time the caf machine had broken mid-afternoon, the entire company was on the verge of rioting. Even Rose - sweet patient Rose - complained that her last nerve had been frayed.

Messrs Dameron, the two Opera House managers, chose that moment to appear. Seeing the disarray and frustration, they had simply ceased rehearsals (against the wishes and vehement protestations of Madame Giry and Klaud, the musical director) and sent the cast away.

Instead of returning home, Rose grabs Rey by the hand, and suggests they visit the cafe across the street. “Come on,” she says, in that dangerous imploring tone that Rey has never been able to resist for long. “I’m parched, and we haven’t been out in  _ age _ s!” 

A shrug is Rey’s acquiescence, and she allows Rose to lead them to the Imperial Tea House, and order them each an afternoon tea with gusto. 

Nursing a cup in her hand, Rose fixes her foster sister with a serious gaze. “I overheard you talking to Maz last night,” she says, and Rey flushes to the roots of her hair. “How come you didn’t confide in me about that? Especially since it’s, you know, my place of work as well?” There is an uncharacteristic sharpness to Rose’s tone, and Rey squirms under the attention.

“Because you used to tease me when I saw ghosts,” she replies. It sounds as lame and toothless aloud as it did in her head.

Rose frowns. “You saw shadows, and you and Maz decided they were ghosts. This is different and you know it. There  _ is  _ a ghost at the Opera House. I think you didn’t tell me because you thought I would use that information to stir up trouble.”

“Oh, and today isn’t a good example?” Rey retorts. “Every single rehearsal is interrupted with screams of ‘Oh no, it’s the Opera Ghost!’ We’re weeks behind on our rehearsals for  _ The Tragedy of Corellia,  _ and did you even read that review of  _ The Seamstress of Naboo  _ in the  _ Hanna City Times? _ We’re becoming a laughing stock, Rose.”

The waiter thankfully chooses that moment to swoop in with a tray of jewel fruit tarts. Rose devours hers with gusto, whereas Rey merely pokes at hers with a fork. Even the Galantean tea tastes bitter in her mouth.

Astute as always, Rose reaches across to take Rey’s hand. “Is something else wrong, Rey?” She inclines her head at Rey’s uneaten pastry, “You  _ never  _ skip food.  _ Ever _ . Not unless something is seriously wrong.”

“There’s nothing, honestly. I promise I wouldn’t keep that sort of secret from you,” Rey tells her, and forces a large forkful tart into her mouth. She takes her time chewing, if only to forestall further questioning from her sister. 

Rose clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, and takes a long sip of tea before she speaks again. “I love you, Rey, and please don’t take this as a criticism… But do you ever think you might be a little  _ too _ focussed on music?” Rey vehemently shakes her head. “I know you’re dedicated - and you are probably the most talented musician I know and will ever know - but it is possible to be dedicated to your craft without becoming a martyr to it.” Rose sighs. “You never have any fun, and you  _ never  _ do anything that doesn’t involve music. I think you need an outlet.”

But music is as instinctive as breathing to Rey. It was songs and tunes that kept her sane in those awful years starving on Jakku, before Maz had rescued her from a future scavenging spare parts on old Star Destroyers. In those days, her belly was rarely even half-full; her lips were parched, and many days she feared she would die before reaching adulthood. Music had been her solace, the one thing that kept her sane.

That love bonded her to Rose once Maz had adopted the girls. Rey would play and Rose dance, and even sing off-key, and they would laugh together over their complimentary passions. 

“Remember when we used to take apart and fix those broken droids?” Rose asks, dragging Rey from the scorching sands of her past and firmly into the present. “We haven’t done that in  _ ages _ ! We could pop by the scrapyard on the way home - it should still be open - and see what we can pick up!”

Rey gives a weak smile; devoid of any enthusiasm. Rose merely shakes her head and sighs. 

“Let me guess - you want to go back to the Opera House and practice some more?”

“Just for a few hours,” she says, noting her sister’s disappointment. “But,” she adds, “Maybe after the performance tomorrow night we could watch a holo-vid?” At that, Rose’s disposition brightens, and she smiles. 

“Fine - but nothing involving music, ghosts, war or spice runners. I want light, fluffy and fun!”

“Deal.” 

As is their custom, and much to the disgust of those few patrons who spot them, the two women spit in their right hand and then shake on it. The habit is vile - more than one of Maz’s less than reputable associates have commented on it. But it’s an old Jakku tradition and one Rey, even after half a lifetime away from that sarlaac pit, cannot shake.

Rose cajoles Rey into lingering for another hour, distracting her with mindless chatter, reminiscing, and even the latest political manoeuvring of the Senate. But the pull of the Opera House, of her music, is too potent a siren call to ignore.

So they part, with Rose standing on tiptoes to brush a kiss to Rey’s cheek. “Don’t stay  _ too _ late,” she warns. “You already look like bantha poodoo. And you don’t want to burn out!” 

In return, Rey sticks her tongue out and waves her sister off.

As she approaches the steps of the Opera House, Rey spots a figure out of the corner of her eye. Large, broad, unbelievable hairy. It’s a Wookie, she realises after a moment.

A Wookie who is currently disappearing into the alleyway beside the Opera House.

Whilst the Ghost provides sufficient fodder for gossip in the company, the other main topic is the mysterious Wookie who seems to come and go as he pleases around the Opera House. A strange, sullen, silent figure, who haunts in a more visible way than the  Opera Ghost. Rey half-wonders if they are in fact one and the same. 

No-one knows his name, nor his purpose. But mysteries make for excellent gossip. According to Rose, the predominant theory is that he is a secret patron.

Quite why a patron would ask for privacy but be sighted by virtually every member of the company wandering around, Rey doesn’t know. Then again, facts never got in the way of a juicy scandal.

It is unnerving to see the foyer so empty at this hour. Even the backstage workers, the costumiers and set-builders, have been sent home. Rey’s footsteps echo on the black and white tiles as she crosses the hallway. That eerie golden statute, of a skeletal creature with a skull-like head and long snout, looms above her at the top of the staircase.

_ “ The grimtaash _ _,”_ or so Maz had told her when she accompanied Rey to her first audition only a few months ago.  _ “A protector from the myths of old.” _

_ If this is what a protector looks like,  _ Rey thinks as she stands in its shadow,  _ Then no wonder everyone thinks this place is haunted. _

==============

Once she has collected her harp from the orchestra pit, and settled herself into the music room, Rey takes a moment to mull over the rehearsal. 

Though her performance had been technically flawless (and Rey had no harsher critic than herself), there was an emotional hollowness that resonated with every note. She  _ knows  _ she can play better than what she offered today.

And all through the rehearsal, ensconced though she was in the orchestra pit, Rey could not shake the feeling of being  _ watched.  _ Every moment, a set of unseen eyes upon her, almost  _ burning _ in their intensity. 

In the moments between movements, when the double jocimer played its solo, or simply when the string section fell quiet, her gaze had drifted above the rafters.

But there is no phantom staring back at her.

Flights of fancy belong to her foster-mother and sister. Rey has always been a pragmatist by nature. Scavenger children don’t have the luxury of inventing monsters in their mind, when there are very real monsters in their lives. Starvation, cruelty, and the ever present risk of exploitation.

Every night, Rey sends silent thanks out to the Universe for sending Maz to rescue her from that, and for affording her opportunities that a hungry and frightened little girl on Jakku could never have envisaged in her future. 

She will not dishonour those opportunities by offering anything less than perfection in her craft.

Rey begins to hum the tune of the  _ Overture, _ gently tapping her foot against the floor until the string section is due to join in. Almost instinctively, her fingers begin to pluck at her notes on her harp. She can  _ hear _ the whole orchestra in her mind but hones in on her own performance.

Not a note nor beat is dropped, but  _ still _ it sounds empty. Insincere. She perseveres with the piece nonetheless. But once the last note has fallen away, frustration colours her cheeks and thunders in her heart.

Whenever she had struggled, with nightmares, with distress, or even on those rare occasions when a piece of music proved too challenging, Maz had always encouraged her to meditate. At first, she had scoffed. Sit cross legged for hours, doing  _ nothing _ , to achieve some semblance of serenity? She would rather play away her frustrations, or failing that, just scream into a pillow until the world receded and her pain burned out.

But, though she still maintains the physical act is ludicrous, there is something liberating about emptying her mind and simply  _ feeling _ the universe around her. Light and dark; life and death; music and silence; pain and pleasure. Knowing them all, and finding the balance between.

So she meditates. The floor is cold, and the wall is hard against her back. Instinctively she slows her heartbeat and her breaths.

She feels everything; and then she feels nothing.

No, wait…

She scrunches her nose, casts out with her mind… 

Later, when she tries to explain it to Maz, she will struggle. But for a moment, she feels a brush of  _ something. _ Like another soul, a mirror to her own. She caresses it with her mind, and feels a flutter of panic, before a strange tranquility fills her. 

The presence recedes; and suddenly Rey feels bereft.

Though she settles at her harp, and practices for over an hour, no other instrument joins in. Her music is lacklustre, and she cringes with every note. Has she startled her accompanist, or are they merely disgusted with her performance? 

Sorrow bubbles within her. As alarmed as she had been last night, there had been a rightness to it. 

She tries again. But her mind will not empty. Her own internal melody plays incessantly, an ever present hum within her brain.  _ Focus, Rey. _ But the music only grows louder - so loud, she can almost hear it outside her head. And in the timbre of only a single instrument, a harp.

As her eyes snap open, and dart frantically around the rehearsal room, she looks for the musician. The room remains empty save for herself.

And yet, unseen fingers pluck at the strings of a harp -  _ her  _ harp - and weave a melody of its notes.

She gasps, and the music falls away.

A voice purrs into her mind.  _ It is you… _

And then, there is only silence.

“Who’s there?” Rey calls out. “Please,” and she hates how plaintive and needy her tone sounds. “I want to meet you. Please…”

==============

By time Rey drags herself home, her mind is abuzz. Endless hours she has sat slumped on the floor of the rehearsal room, calling out into the silence. Her back aches, her voice is hoarse, and her music is still flat and emotionless.

Rose is already asleep, slumped on the couch with a comedic holo playing in the background. Her eyelashes twitch as Rey approaches, and gently wraps a blanket over her, but she does not stir.

“I’m sorry,” Rey murmurs, and brushes her lips over her sister’s brow.

A snuffle is her only response.

==============

Rose had been right, Rey realises as she glimpses herself in the bedroom mirror. Dark circles line her eyes, and there is an unhealthy pallor to her skin. Even her freckles seem to be fading.

She carefully undoes her three hair buns, running a brush through her locks as they cascade down her back. It only takes her a few moments to work out the knots. Then, she rubs a lavender scented cream over her hands, already calloused from a decade as a musician.

Outside, a few speeders whizz past. She hears the patter of raindrops against her window - a random yet soothing lullaby. 

As Rey stands, something flickers in the corner of her gaze, and she snaps her eyes back to the mirror.

Behind the glass is a shadow. Indistinct, but enough to see that it is a man. His face is hidden behind a helmet of duraplast. Even without seeing his eyes, his gaze sorches her down to the bone.

Rey spins around, arms raised in a fighting stance.

But the room is empty.

When she returns her gaze to the mirror, that strange figure gives her a wordless nod before he vanishes.

She sprints to the living room, and awakens Rose with a shake to her shoulders. “Rose, you’re not going to believe what I just saw!”

Through bleary eyes, Rose listens, her teeth coming out to worry at her lower lip. “Still don’t believe in the ghost, then?” She responds once Rey has breathlessly finished her story.


	2. The Music of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours she plays with her unseen accompanist. Her heart beats a rapid tattoo, skin burning hot as a fever, and a delicious ache blossoms deep in her belly. As she plucks the final notes at the end of the night, a soft moan escapes her.
> 
> Music has always been her passion; but she has never burned for it like this before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for such lovely comments on Chapter 1 of Hide Your Face! I've never written a true AU before, so this has been a baptism of fire, so to speak. Hope you all enjoy Chatper 2...
> 
>  **Content warning:** Abduction (well, it wouldn't be a Reylo/POTO mash-up without it!)

The sisters talk for hours. 

“La Phasma told me,” Rose says as she passes Rey a steaming mug of tea, “That the ghost was once a musician at the Opera House. He was in love with a singer, but she abandoned him for a wealthy patron. Driven mad by grief, he killed her and her lover, then took his own life once he realised the horror of his actions.” She leans back in her chair, and takes a long sip. “Ever since then, he has haunted the Opera House, searching for her.”

“A lurid tale indeed,” Rey deadpans. Her finger traces the rim of her cup. 

_It is you,_ still purrs in her mind,

“Maybe you remind him of her?” Rose volunteers hesitantly. At her sister’s raised eyebrows, Rose shrugs. “Maybe he thinks you are her soul reborn?”

At that, Rey barks a laugh. “Rose, I’m twenty. Monsieur Klaud told me that the ghost has only been around for the last few years.” She shakes her head. “Besides, there are plenty of members of the orchestra who’ve been at the Opera House for _decades!_ Surely if something like that _did_ happen, there would be dozens of people who would remember that.” 

A dismissive hum was Rose’s only concession. “Are you going to tell Maz?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t want to worry her.”

It’s a convenient lie; even Rose senses it, and frowns at Rey. But she does not push the subject and instead shifts their conversation to meaningless frivolity. And Rey is grateful for it.

When their eyelids grow heavy, they drag their weary bodies to Rose’s bedroom and snuggle together under the covers like they did when they were small. Two orphan girls, seeking comfort against the nightmares. But there existed neither monster nor nightmare that could not be vanquished by their sisterly bond. For one another, Rey and Rose would always fight to the death.

The soporific patter of raindrops on the window lulls Rey into a dreamless sleep.

================

Monsieur Klaud and Madame Giry stand solemn-faced at the entrance to the auditorium when Rey and Rose arrive at the Opera House that morning. Both still clutch flasks of strong caf. They, and the rest of the cast, are ushered not to the pit or backstage, but to the main stalls.

“What’s going on?” Rose asks on a yawn, leading them to a row in the centre stalls.

“I don’t know,” Rey replies, casting her eyes to the main stage. Poe Dameron, the Opera House manager, stands in the centre. Absent is his usual jubilance; instead, his cheeks are ashen and he seems to be wringing his hands. He has the look of a man with a blaster pointed at his back. “But nothing good by the looks of it.”

When Dameron clears his throat, the murmuring of the myriad cast and crew grow silent. He shuffles from foot to foot; casting a glimpse at his husband and co-manager Finn, who gives him a reassuring nod.

Rey leans forward in her chair, and feels Rose grasp for her hand.

The atmosphere in the auditorium is taut - they wait for Dameron’s words to snap it.

When he announces in a monotone voice that the Opera House’s upcoming production for the season was being changed from _The Tragedy of Corellia_ to _Bastila & Revan, _ the stalls erupt with the force of a volcano.

The chorus of disapproval is near-deafening. Both Rey and Rose visibly wince. Madame Giry marches towards the stage, incandescent with rage and chattering in her strange language (though Rose mutters that it’s not much different from usual - the Lanai ballet mistress is irascible at the best of times). Her webbed hands gesticulate wildly in Dameron’s face, and he is only saved from further wrath by Finn escorting her away.

A frisson of excitement fills Rey even as she pretends to grimace and moan with the rest of the company. _Bastila_ _& Revan_ has always been her most beloved opera; a complex, challenging work, and a wedding movement composed entirely of string instruments.

Of course, the most beautiful piece - a marriage between a solo harp and violin - will not be offered to Rey. After all, she is only the _second_ harpist. Her eyes drift enviously to Armitage Hux a few rows in front. First harpist, confidante of the two managers; that piece will almost definitely be awarded to him.

Hux is a talented (albeit unfeeling) musician. There will be no technical fault in his playing, but the melody will not strike the same emotional resonance if it were plucked by her own hands. 

But Rey will get to practice it anyway as his understudy. It is as close to fantasy as she dares to dream; even if it just dangles tantalisingly out of reach, Rey knows there is time. She is only twenty, and one day she will play it as her own.

================

Tonight, when she stays behind (after a later than usual session owing to the new production and compressed rehearsal schedule - _The Tragedy of Corellia_ was due to open in a mere three weeks), Rey does not begin with her own personal melody. Instead, her fingers begin to pluck the notes from the Wedding Canon of _Bastila & Revan. _

And then she hears the notes of a violin entwine with her playing.

This was better than any recording or performance of the piece that Rey has ever heard. This was _transcendent_.

Hours she plays with her unseen accompanist. Her heart beats a rapid tattoo, skin burning hot as a fever, and a delicious ache blossoms deep in her belly. As she plucks the final notes at the end of the night, a soft moan escapes her.

Music has always been her passion; but she has never _burned_ for it like this before. With every note, a roiling and nervous anticipation builds within her.

A few times Rey calls out in the air. “Please, I want to meet you.” But no matter how plaintive her entreaty, the other half of her duet is ever silent.

Opera phantom; shy instrumentalist, or simply the delusion of an exhausted woman with too much imagination, Rey does not know. But how can another play in such perfect tune with her, weave notes into such alluring melodies, and yet remain unknown to her.

When no answers are forthcoming, she simply plays on.

Only when the song fades away for the final time, when Rey massages the cramp from her hand, does she notice the hour.

 _Midnight_.

It’s not that she is _afraid._ No, Rey would claim she is merely being sensibly cautious. The Opera Ghost is not the only monster in the shadows - and if her suspicions about the identity of her unseen violinist are true, she has nothing to fear from him.

But whilst the Opera House may be safe, the darkened streets of Hanna City are not.

Her footsteps echo in the hallway as she hurries. Even the cleaning droids have retreated to their repose. Rey cannot shake the feeling of that mysterious presence; friend, phantom or perhaps both. So deep in her reverie, she rounds the corner, and collides with someone.

Someone tall, broad and very intimidating.

 _Opera ghost!_ Screams in her mind.

But Opera Ghosts probably aren’t this hairy.

In the dim light, she cranes her neck to look up at the face of a Wookie.

 _The Wookie_ , she thinks.

Then, she realises that she should perhaps apologise.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, brushing residual fur off her coat.

 _ <Opera House is no place for a young girl late at night,> _ he growls. She would be chilled at his words, were they not spoken in an almost cajoling, parental tone.

How she understands his language, Rey could later not account her. But then, she has always had an innate understanding of other tongues, even the obscure ones. 

_The Force,_ Maz whispers in her mind

Further contemplation on the matter is curtailed when the Wookie reaches out, and pats her shoulder. _ <Ghosts wander late at night, Little One. This one here will grant _ **_you_ ** _safe passage through his hallways; but beware the other creatures which lurk in the dark. > _

“I don’t fear ghosts,” she tells him, and there is no bravado to her words. 

The Wookie merely chuckles. _ <Come. I have a speeder. I’ll take you home. Your mother must be worried about her pup.> _

As they step into the main foyer, Rey feels a burning gaze upon her. Her heart quickens, and she casts her eyes to the Grimtaash statue at the top of the stairs. In the dim, she can almost make out the flutter of a cloak as someone disappears around the corner.

 _You are no ghost,_ she thinks, _You are just a man._

Rey feels the bite of cold as she and the Wookie step out into the dark. She tugs her red scarf tighter around her neck, and wishes she had remembered to bring her gloves.

Aside from an exchange of names (his is Chewbacca, he tells Rey as he inputs her address into the navholo), the journey back to Maz’s is silent. The speeder is heavy with the smell of smoke and Chewbacca’s own musk. He continually slants his eyes towards her, but makes no further attempts at conversation until they arrive at their apartment complex.

 _ <Need me to walk you up?> _ He asks. 

She shakes her head, and gives his paw a grateful caress. “Thank you for the ride, Chewbacca.”

His mouth twists into what might be a smile. _ <Until next time, little one. Rest now - you have a punishing schedule ahead of you.> _

================

The dining room is always so loud when the company breaks for lunch. 

Although autumn is closing in, the skies are dry, a sea of blue punctuated by only thin, wispy clouds. Rose is quick to suggest lunching on the roof. _Technically_ this is forbidden. But the views of Hanna City are stunning, and Rey feels a need to escape the Opera House if only for an hour.

“They say the Opera Ghost blackmailed the managers into changing the production,” Rose says in between bites of her five blossom bread. 

Rey rolls at her eyes, and takes a swig of caf from her flask. The brew is a touch too strong, but it warms her blood against the chill. “Does _anything_ happen around here without the Opera Ghost being blamed?”

A pleasant breeze ruffles her hair. She leans back on the copper tiles, and closes her eyes. The refrain of the city below surrounds her: the _whoosh_ of speeders as they sprint through the air, the chatter of the populace; even the occasional twitter of birds in the nearby park.

Rey feels that scorching gaze upon her once more. But no matter how long she searches with her eyes, there is no-one here save herself and Rose.

“Still, it’s the final night tomorrow,” Rose says excitedly. Rey cracks open an eye to peer at her foster sister. “You’re still coming to the gala afterwards, right?” 

Rey shrugs. “Don’t think I have a choice. Dameron says attendance is compulsory.” Her lips make a moue of distaste.

Whilst she would never begrudge her fellow performers their indulgences, galas and the like are not to her taste. But she understands the urgent need for relaxation among her colleagues, especially after an arduous and misfortune ladden run of _The Seamstress of Naboo._ Crew dissatisfaction is at an all-time high, and there have already been several threats of resignation.

(La Phasma, their Prima Donna, had implied that she was being scouted by the musical director of the Galaxies Opera House in Coruscant; and the orchestra has already lost a Chindinkalu flautist and Vye bassist. Even Kaydel Ko Connix, the prima ballerina, had made half-hearted grumblings about leaving for pastures new.) 

Scuttlebutt was that the managers had splashed considerably out to bolster staff morale. Rumours of towers of jogan fruit cake, barrels of Toniray wine shipped direct from Alderaan, and even an entire roast bantha on a spit had skittered around the cast and crew. Given the standard veracity of Opera House rumours, Rey expects the reality will be a platter of cold cheeses and a few bottles of knock-off Sunberry wine.

“Apparently some of the patrons will be coming too,” Rose says excitedly.

“Ah.” 

So perhaps slightly more luxurious fare will be on offer after all...

Dameron is flamboyant - his husband is the more reserved of the pair. They know little of music - not enough, Rey thinks, to be running an Opera House - but their business sense is well-recognised. They would not expend huge sums of money just to keep their staff on side. But to impress their patrons, and as an entreaty for greater funds… That Rey can believe.

================

She would not normally make a special effort for the finale night. But after a few hours of needling and cajoling from Rose, Rey relents.

She retains her long sleeved black gown, but allows Rose to twist her hair into a more elaborate braid than is her norm. She declines the purple lipstick, but agrees to a deep red the colour of sunset.

In a contrast to their recent performances, the finale proceeds without a hitch. Every cue is well-timed, the orchestra and chorus finally melding in perfect harmony, and there is not so much as a wobble from any of the set pieces.

Perhaps it is the relief of _The Seamstress of Naboo_ finally being over. 

Or perhaps the company simply fears the Opera Ghost’s displease.

As the finale comes to a close, as Rey plucks her final notes, she again feels those mysterious eyes upon her. 

_Brava, brava, bravisima…_

Rey had never needed effusive praise. Music is her art, her passion, and she can live without any external validation if she herself is satisfied. And tonight, though she feels drained, having poured every iota of soul and feeling into the melody, she is content. But that little girl inside her stills preens under the compliment. 

As is their custom on the final night, the orchestra joins the entire company on stage. Even the stagehands and make-up artists, costumiers and carpenters are invited (albeit hidden at the back, so as not to detract from the main players or the managers). A collective bow is taken, and the curtain _finally_ descends on _The Seamstress of Naboo._

Rey has never been so grateful to see the end of a production before.

A flurry of activity erupts, bodies darting her and there like a hive of Hrelan bees at the height of summer. Orders are barked, bodies collide, and Rey finds herself being dragged by the hand towards the ballerinas’ dressing room by an over-eager Rose.

She stands awkwardly at the back whilst the ballerinas disrobe from their peasant costumes, unwind their braids and wipe the grime and chalk from their faces. Robes of a thousand colours are pulled out: bejewlled gowns of deepest red, ethereal and floating turquoise dresses. Rey tugs at her plain black gown: though she would never feel comfortable in any of these rainbow-coloured garments (save perhaps the deep green that Jess Parva has slipped into), she feels a little under-dressed in comparison.

When a flask of what is supposedly Corellian whiskey (but smells more like engine grease) is being passed around, Rey politely excuses herself and decides to wait for Rose in the corridor.

Even at a distance, she can hear the stains of music echo from the main foyer. Ordinarily, Poe Dameron would offer a hefty supplement to any of the orchestra willing to provide entertainment at a gala. But tonight, he has investigated in a jizz-band instead. Rey chuckles - he is clearly determined to woo his crew enough to prevent further resignations when the season closes by Midwinter.

She spots a mirror a little way from the dressing room. Her hair remains mostly in its elaborate crown braid. A few tendrils have loosened with the hours, and she presses them down with a moistened finger. The lipstick is a little less vibrant, and she fumbles for the item in her pocket to reapply it.

Once she is satisfied, a prickle of awareness settles over her once more. Her eyes snap to the corner of the mirror, and she has to stifle a gasp.

That masked face is there once more; clearer and more distinct than ever. But as she frantically searches the vestibule, she is still alone. 

This masked man - this _phantom_ …

Were it not for the fact she can see her own reflection, she would assume this to not be a mirror, but a panel. He is tall - as tall as the musician in her dreams. Every inch of his skin is concealed - long black robes, black leather gloves, and that helmet which conceals his face. But Rey knows two things instinctively.

One: this masked figure is her mysterious violinist.

Two: He is also the rumoured phantom.

With a shudder in breath, she places her palm against the mirror. Almost in tandem, he strips the glove of his right hand and does the same. 

She imagines that she will feel the tangible warmth of his skin. But there is nothing but cold transparisteel beneath her fingers. Even so, her heart thunders beneath her breast.

A strangled breath escapes him. **“Rey…”**

It is not the rich, velvety tone that had purred in her mind, but a jarring mechanical voice that instantly shatters her reverie. 

She drops her hand, and tries not to stare at the palm on the other side of the mirror. That beautiful, huge hand which produces the most sumptuous of music.

“Why do you hide in the shadow?” She murmurs.

The Opera Ghost; the man in the mask; whomever he is, suddenly pulls his hand back as if burned. His presence fades, and Rey is left staring at her own reflection with glistening eyes.

“There you are!” Rose suddenly appears at her side, dressed in a pale blue gown just as modest as Rey’s own, with her hair loose about her shoulders. Her grin fades when she sees the stricken look on her foster sister’s face. “Rey…” She places a hand on her forearm. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Rey says in a thick voice. She rubs angrily at her traitorous tears. “I don’t know why I’m so worked up…”

“You saw the ghost, didn’t you?” Rose’s eyes are wide like saucers.

“Yes.”

The air grows suddenly ice cold, and even beneath the long sleeves of her gown Rey’s skin pimples with gooseflesh. She suddenly wishes for her scarf, so that she might wind it around herself as a barrier to the world. 

But a sister’s arms are a better shield. Rose holds her close, and even though she is the diminutive one in height, Rey has never felt more protected. They would raze planets, slay monsters and burn the whole galaxy to the ground for one another. Rey presses her brow to Rose’s neck, and lets a few tears spill forth.

“I’m sorry, I’m ruining your gown,” she says once her tears have abated.

“Probably a good thing you didn’t wear any eye makeup, then,” Rose deadpans. Rey lifts her head and offers her sister a watery smile. “Besides, my feet are _killing_ me after that final act. There’s no way I’ll be dancing tonight.” She lips quirk into a mischievous grin. “Want to grab as much food and drink as we can carry, and listen to the band out on the balcony?”

Rey has never heard a more tempting offer.

================

Poe Dameron is in his element, Rey thinks. She watches him flitter around the crowd, one hand on the small of his husband’s back whilst the other is shaking the hands of an endless parade of rich patrons and dignitaries. Gone is the tetchy figure from the other day. Now, Dameron is positively ebullient.

His husband Finn has never seemed quite as at ease with the milieu of social events. But the two work well together, Rey thinks: the shyness of one the perfect counterbalance to the exuberance of the other.

Romance has never entered Rey’s mind, except in the purely theoretical sense. Music is her lover, her passion. But, she thinks as she watches the Damerons, if she were ever blessed enough to fall in love, she wants what they have. Two halves of a whole, balancing each other.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Chewbacca. The Wookie is lurking at the foot of the staircase, clutching a glass which looks comically tiny in his massive paws. He shuffles awkwardly, and Rey wonders if perhaps he is an uninvited interloper.

But then he spots her, and offers her a polite nod.

================

Armed with a plate of jogan fruit tarts, whilk milk cheese on crackers, and a pilfered bottle of Sunberry wine (surprisingly genuine), Rey and Rose escape onto the balcony overlooking the city. They find an unoccupied bench, and spread out their picnic between them.

The air is still, but cold. No clouds swirl overhead, and Rey is thankful that they won’t have to endure a rapid, sodden dash back to the Opera House if it rains. She nestles deeper into her red scarf, wrapped around her like a blanket. Rose has “borrowed” a thick purple robe that Rey half-recognises from Prince Windu’s costume in _The Seamstress of Naboo._ She half-raises an eyebrow at her sister, but Rose merely shrugs. “What? It’s already torn, and anyway it’s not like they’re going to need it for the next production.”

The sound of the jizz-wailers fill the air, and the others milling on the balcony migrate back to the dance floor. 

Rey tucks into a jogan fruit tart with gusto, and then mock-wrestles Rose for the last cheese cracker. They decant the wine into glasses, and raise mock toasts: to the Opera House; to that poison-pen critic who described the love scene in _The Seamstress of Naboo_ as having the dignity and grace of a low-end brothel fight; and even to Madame Giry, whose lips have yet to know the delight of a smile.

The wine tastes tart, and the bubbles tickle Rey’s throat. Suddenly, with a full belly, a _stunning_ nocturnal view of Hanna City, and the confidence of her sister, she feels all powerful.

“One day,” Rey says, just on the pleasant side of dizzy, “I’m going to be First Harpist, and you’re going to be Prima Ballerina. And we’ll still,” she punctuates her speech with wild gesticulations, “Hide out here at parties and stuff our faces!”

“Here here!” Rose hiccups, which leads them both to dissolve with laughter. “But I want to dance at least once when my legs aren’t sore!” 

The music comes to an end with a brief smattering of applause, and then a more jaunty tune reverberates through the building. 

Rose suddenly leaps to her feet. Inebriation does not entirely dull her pain, and she winces visibly. “Oh, kark it,” she mutters, before schooling her face into a semblance of serenity. She gives Rey an exaggerated bow. “May I have this dance, Miss?”

A giggle bursts forth from Rey, and she grasps Rose’s proffered hand. “But of course you may, Miss!”

There is no elegance to their dance. Instead, they clasp hands and begin to spin manically, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Faster and faster they go, and the world dissolves into a series of blurs. 

Rey feels _marvellous._

They pause only to gasp for air, Rey needing to grasp the wall to centre herself. A strange wave of _fondness_ washes over her. 

Once Rose has steadied herself, she suddenly lifts the hem of her dress and kicks off her shoes. With bare feet, she dances a solo jig, emitting the occasional hiss when she lands too heavily on her aching soles. 

Rey picks up her discarded scarf; she begins to spin and wave it in the air. She tries to imitate the Courtesan’s dance from _The Seamstress of Naboo,_ although it undoubtedly just looks like a half-drunk madwoman twirling fabric whilst trying not to laugh.

Once the tune has come to an end, the women collapse back on the bench, breathless with laughter.

“And there was me thinking that the balcony would be the ideal spot for some peace and quiet,” comes a voice from the other end of the terrace. 

Rey’s head snaps up, and she flushes to the roots of her. The voice’s owner, a young man dressed in grey robes, leans against the doorframe. A bemused smirk plays on his lips.

That is, until her gaze meets his.

“By the Maker… Rey, is that you?”

As he steps closer, the moonlight catches his features. Bald head despite his young age, soft eyes and a boyish smile. 

Rey’s face splits with a grin. “Tai?”

He nods, and she steps forward to throw her arms around him. He echoes her embrace, and she feels the reverberation of his chuckle against her chest. 

When they break their hug, Rey takes a moment to drink in his appearance.

The years have been kind to him; he seems looser, freer, than the boy she had known nearly a decade ago. He smells of expensive cologne, and the faintest hint of whiskey clings to his breath. But his smile is no less warming than the first time they met.

The sound of a throat clearing tears Rey’s attention away from Tai. She turns and sees Rose staring at them with folded arms and a sardonic smile.

“Tai, you remember my sister Rose?” Rey says, and is surprised how breathless she sounds. 

“Tai…” Rose says slowly as she shakes his hand. “Your friend from Junari Point?”

A soft laugh escapes Tai. “Guilty as charged, Rose. Speaking of which,” he inclines his head to Rey’s scarf, now lying in a pool on the mosaic stones. “I see you still have that scarf I rescued for you.”

Rey’s mind races. The little boy who had reached out with the Force to catch her scarf when a salt breeze tore it from her neck all those years ago at Junari Point was here. He had been a Jedi Padawan then, on a mission with his Master, a kindly Tortugan called Ashoka Tano. 

Master Ashoka had been kind, and eager to share tales of her adventures with Rey and Rose. Her gaze seemed to fall on Rey often, as she looked upon the girl with curious eyes.

Those summer weeks, with all three children ensconced in Maz’s attic trading lurid horror tales by moonlight, were some of Rey’s dearest memories.

But Rey had not allowed herself to get attached to Tai. Jedi were forbidden from attachments - that much she had always known - and so when his and Master Ashoka’s duties at Junari Point were complete, she had bid him farewell knowing his life was taking a very different path to hers. There was no point in speculating about things which would never come to fruition.

Rey did not form attachments easily. It took months to trust that Maz would not abandon her like her own parents had; even longer to believe that Rose would not leave when she too was adopted by the kindly woman. Fear of loss, of separation, ever present, made it nigh on impossible for Rey to accept people into her heart. Aside from Rose, she had no real friends at the Opera House.

In fact, since saying goodbye to Tai nearly a decade ago, Rey was not sure she had made any new friends at all. And she would have struggled to form a real friendship with the young Jedi Padawan, given the demands of his vocation.

Except… Rey frowns. “I must confess, I’d never imagined a Jedi being at one of these galas?”

“Ah.” Tai seems to squirm, shuffling on his foot. “I… left the Jedi Order a few years ago,” he says finally. “It was never the right fit for me.” His gaze lifts to meet hers. “I’m a scholar now; I’ve been at Theed University on Naboo for the last two years.”

“And what brings you to Chandrilla this time?” Rose interjects; there is a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. “And more importantly, what brings you to the Opera House tonight?” She inclines her head towards Rey and winks.

The three of them settle down on the bench; Rey in the centre with her sister and friend flanking her.

“Which do you want me to answer first?” Tai says, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I came to Chandrilla to visit the Archives - I’m producing a thesis on the fall of the Alderaan. The old royal family had close links to Chandrilla - King Anakin II in particular. Did you know that the _grimtaash_ statue in the main foyer was a gift from him?”

Both women shake their heads.

“And you came to an Opera House gala to look at a statue?” Rose asks, her eyebrow arched sceptically. 

Tai shakes his head. “Not my sole reason for coming, but a reasonable enough incentive to endure a party. My parents have been patrons here since before I was born.” He turns his attention to Rey, and his eyes sparkle like jewels in the moonlight. “Although perhaps I now have some more compelling reasons for coming to these in future.” His fingers twitch, but he does not make any move to reach for her hand. Suddenly, a flush comes over him, so aching endearing, and he twists his head to look at Rose. “It will be good to re-connect with two old friends.”

“Of course,” Rose says with a wink, looking pointedly at Rey. “Old… friends…”

================

One evening is not enough to catch up on a decade of absence; but the three do their best. 

Tai is delighted to hear of their employment at the Opera House. “You must let me hear you play!” he tells Rey, and takes her hand in his. Then, he realises he might have been overly familiar and withdraws. Even in the darkness, Rey can see the blush staining his pale cheeks.

“Stay late after rehearsal,” Rose declares, sipping another glass of Sunberry wine. Her words come out a little slurred. “She would spend all night practising if she could! Even the Opera Ghost-” and now Rey tries to shush her, but Rose continues undeterred, “As I was saying! Even the Opera Ghost comes to listen, and sometimes he plays alongside her!”

A storm fills Rey’s eyes; which both Rose and Tai miss as they giggle.

“An Opera Ghost as your audience!” He says. “You must be talented enough indeed!” Then, a frown creases his features. “We used to come here regularly when I was little - before the Jedi Order - and I don’t remember any tales of Opera Ghosts.”

“Oh, he’s a new acquisition!” Rose says on a hiccup. “He haunts the corridors looking for his lost lady love - and he thinks Rey is her reincar- reincar- Oh, _kark_ it, Rey is her reborn.” A flurry of giggles erupt from her, interspersed with more hiccups.

“What a perfectly lurid tale!” Tai says, putting a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “It’s like being back in Maz’s attic again!”

“Rose…” Rey says warningly, her eyes narrowed and a flush covering her face and neck.

But any further attempts at admonishment are stifled by an almighty crash. Screams resonating from the foyer fill the air.

Tai is on his feet; he reaches beneath his robes and pulls out a lightsaber hilt. He ignites the blue blade. “Stay here!” He tells Rey and Rose, and runs towards the chaos.

Rose grips Reys’s forearm, hard enough to bruise. “Oh, kriff!” She wails. “Do you think-”

“Come on!” Rey tugs Rose to her feet, and they follow Tai.

The music has stopped; patrons and crew alike are yelling and running this way and that. The sudden scent of smoke fills Rey’s lungs; she watches black plumes fill the air, thick and choking. 

“Oh gods,” Rose moans, clinging to Rey like a vine as they run down the stairs and into the crowd. “I’ve made him angry!”

“Switch off, Rose!” Rey snaps at her, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but we have to get out of here!”

The throng of bodies propels them along, people bumping into one another, stepping on toes and tripping. She feels their collective panic, and tries to steady the thrum of her heartbeat. _Focus, Rey,_ she tells herself, her palm sweating against Rose’s as they try to navigate the chaos and, most importantly, stay together.

Until someone collides with her and she feels Rose’s hand torn from her grip.

They call for one another over the din. But their voices are drowned by too many others, calling for loved ones, for help, or just general expletives and expressions of terror as they flee the burning Opera House. Rey recognises hardly anyone, and now she feels a frisson of alarm reverberate through her body. Rose, Rose, she has to find Rose. She has to _protect Rose._

Suddenly, a large body crushes against Rey’s, and she is slammed into the wall. Winded, she staggers to her feet. Whomever had knocked into her has vanished into the crowd. She hears the shattering of transparisteel as someone breaks the doors, and there is another rush of people.

Rey frantically scans the crowd. She sees a flash of blue moving towards the door, and prays to the gods of every pantheon that Rose has escaped. 

Then, out of the corner of her eyes, she spots something else.

A towering figure in black disappearing around a corner.

Perhaps it is adrenaline. Perhaps it is the lingering alcohol in her blood.

Perhaps she is just a fool.

But Rey doesn’t follow the throng of panicked faces making their escape. She turns, and follows the figure in black instead.

Down a hallway she runs, until the only scent of smoke is that clinging to her gown, and the screams of terror are barely audible. Her shoes clatter against the tiles, and there is _no way_ he can’t hear her. 

“Wait!” Rey yells, her voice bouncing off the walls. She presses a hand against the wall, and gulps a desperate breath.

But before she can take another step, her body freezes. 

She wants to scream, but even her lips are paralysed. The only parts of her working are the desperate pants of her lungs, the thundering of her heartbeat, and the panicked flicker of her eyes as she searches for her unseen assailant.

Then, she sees _him_.

_The Opera Ghost._

He moves closer; every step is almost _hesitant._ Despite his bulk, and the fact that he has her immobilised, there is no menace in him. He moves with malignant grace, and every step is cautious, measured.

Until he stands mere feet away from her.

In her dreams, the violinist, Opera Ghost, or whomever/whatever he is had been tall. This man is a colossus, towering over her. He lifts a gloved hand, and hovers it near her temple, but makes no move to touch her.

Not that she has the power to resist even if she wanted.

 _Why?_ She asks him with her eyes.

Dimly, she hears a faint voice echoing in the hallway. “I saw her come this way! Rey! Rey, can you hear me?!”

The Opera Ghost’s face is hidden, but she senses a spike of fury from him. Possessive, jealous, unadulterated fury. He waves his hand over her temple, and suddenly the world falls to darkness.

The last thing she hears is Tai’s voice as he continues to shout her name.


	3. The Opera Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unconsciously, Rey begins to hum the melody. It is transcendent, bewitching in its beauty, and a pleasant warmth suffuses her entire being. She places it on her music stand, and begins to pluck the notes on her harp.
> 
> It sounds even more exquisite in the acoustics of the room than it did in her mind. A lilting, soft melody that feels like a lover’s caress. That notion does not still her hand, even as she furrows her brow. The music seems to fill every chasm in her soul, and it almost feels as though it was written for her.

Rey awakens to a fog in her mind. Her limbs feel heavy and aching, like a long day trawling for parts in downed Star Destroyers. The bed is soft, and the quilt so deliciously warm as she burrows deeper into it.

But something pricks at her consciousness. She tries to grasp at it, like the fleeting tendrils of a dream; yet it continually slips away, like sand through her fingers. And no matter the warmth and comfort of her bed, it all feels  _ wrong _ .

When her eyes open - kriff, what an effort for so simple a task! - the bed is not her own. That realisation is enough to waken the rest of her body.

She throws off the covers, ignoring the protest of her muscles. She is clad in a heavy black dress - the one she traditionally wears to the finale performances…

The finale… the gala… the fire…

_ Rose! _

**“Good, you’re awake,”** comes that strange mechanical voice. Rey’s eyes snap to the corner of the room. 

That masked figure sits hunched, but even through the helmet, she can sense the hunger in his eyes.

“Where am I?” Rey barks, stumbling to her feet. They are bare, but she spots her shoes against the wall. He had evidently striped them off her when he placed her in the bed. That he had touched her, without consent, sends a wave of revulsion over her. What else had he-?

**“Nothing,”** he says, and suddenly stands.  **“I carried you here, and lay you upon the bed. I swear.”** His gloved hands are raised in a mollifying gesture, but rage still flutters in her chest.

“Take your mask off,” she snaps, and is surprised when he almost seems to withdraw.

A strange huffing sound comes from the vocal modulator. Rey thinks it might be a sigh.  **“I… cannot.”**

She launches herself at him; only to be frozen again in mid-air. But this time she retains use of her voice. “You could have killed me! You could have killed my sister!” she snarls, and watches him recoil with the force of her rage. 

_ Good,  _ she thinks.

**“It was only a small fire,”** he counters, and sinks onto the now vacant bed.  **“I needed the managers to know that this is** **_my_ ** **Opera House. And I would never have allowed any harm to befall either you or Rose.”**

“Don’t say her name.” Rey struggles against his unseen restraints. “How are you doing that?”

That same strange mechanical sigh comes from him. 

But before he can answer, a roar fills the air.

His concentration falters, and Rey crumbles heavily to the ground. But her limbs are at least under her own command again. As she stumbles to her feet, the towering figure of Chewbacca bursts through the open doorway.

Every other time Rey has seen the Wookie, he has always been genial, gentle. But now, his body positively thrums with rage. His eyes are wild and his teeth bared.  _ <What the kriff are you playing at?> _ he bellows.

The Opera Ghost, terror of the ballerinas, scourge of the managers, actually  _ recoils _ at the Wookie’s anger. 

The whole scene is so utterly surreal. Rey rubs a hand over her skull, looking for any signs that she had injured her head, and this is all part of some bizarre concussion.

_ <I don’t care!> _ Chewbacca growls. He turns away from the Opera Ghost, and his attention falls on Rey. Any darkness in his gaze melts away.  _ <Are you hurt, Rey?> _

Numbly, she shakes her head.

_ <Your mother and sister are outside the Opera House,> _ he tells her, resolutely focussing his attention on her, and not on the black-clad figure of the Opera Ghost still lurking in the corner.  _ <Your poor sister is inconsolable. She will be relieved to know that you’re all right.> _ He extends his giant paw to her, and Rey tucks her hand into his grasp. The other rests on her shoulders, a living blanket of comfort against the insanity of this night.  _ <Come child… Let’s get you back to the surface.> _

As they turn towards the door of this windowless room, he fixes the Opera Ghost with a poisonous glare. 

_ <We will talk about this later,> _ he says evenly.

The Opera Ghost merely nods in return.

================

They navigate a path through strange subterranean chambers. Despite the tumult of her thoughts, Rey tries to drink in their surroundings. Chewbacca guides her through the stark, lifeless chambers of what must be  _ his _ home. There is nothing macabre or haunted about it. Just sterile grey walls, a single table and chair. 

Yet, in stark contrast is a large pipe organ in the corner of the main quarters. 

Rey wonders how in the galaxy the Opera Ghost - no, this charlatan who has taunted her, kidnapped her and masqueraded as a phantom - managed to get it down here in the first instance.

The other object in the room which piques her curiosity is a woven basket near the doorway. It looks almost like the bed of a  _ pet _ . Rey scoffs a little at the notion - the Opera Ghost having a pet?

Not the first time, she wonders if this is simply a peculiar dream. 

Chewbacca leads her to a small gondola, with a battered R2 astromech at the bow. The droid chirps and beeps, and turns its head with a mechanical whine to gaze upon them. The boat barely dips as she enters it; but gives a lurch as Chewbacca joins her.

The R2 unit protests for a moment, until the Wookie threatens it with being scraped. Only then does the boat move. They pass into a cave, lit sparingly by wall torches. Shadows dance in the flickering light.

Gooseflesh pimples on Rey’s arms. The air is still but she stills feels a bite of cold. With gentle paws, Chewbacca readjusts the red scarf at her neck. 

_ Rose would love this place, _ Rey thinks morosely.  _ This is exactly what she would have imagined. _

All too soon, the boat stops at a small wooden dock. The astromech chirps darkly as they disembark. She hears a soft splash as the gondola is turned, and begins the slow journey back to its origin point.

Chewbacca leads her through another stone passageway. It feels like they walk for hours. Her feet ache, and her head buzzes with a thousand unspoken questions. But she is so very tired, and even curiosity is stifled in the wake of her exhaustion.

================

Rey only realises how stale the air beneath has been when she takes a huge gulp of the cold night air. She blinks, as though emerging from a narcotic haze.

They emerge into the alley at the side of the Opera House; the same one she has spied Chewbacca sneaking into. He places a giant hand on her back, and leads her into the main boulevard. A small crowd is milling at the entrance of the Opera House; officials in stark Security Force garb are talking to the stricken-looking figure of Poe Dameron.

A sudden shriek fills the air, and something small and crying tackles Rey. 

“Praise the gods!” Rose sobs, bursting into hiccups against Rey’s shoulder. Her tears soak through the dress, and her grip is almost bruising. “I thought I’d lost you!” she manages to get out between hiccups.

Soon, Maz’s arms are around her as well, whilst offering Chewbacca unending thanks and effusive praise for rescuing her daughter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Tai. His eyes are wide, and a grin plays on his lips. But this is not his moment; he knows that. So he lingers in the background until Rose has untangled herself from Rey, until Maz has loosened her grip on Rey’s skirts and places a peck on Chewbacca’s forehead. He has to stoop low to accept her kiss, but a shy smile plays on his lips.

Tai then pulls Rey into his arms; though he had appeared steady, she feels his tremor wrack through her. “Gods Rey, you frightened me. When I couldn’t sense you, I feared the worst.”

And though she leans into his embrace, Rey still feels hollow. The melancholy ensnaring her soul is not of her own making; it feels like an echo of someone else’s. 

================

Chewbacca insists on escorting them home in his speeder. Though Tai tries to inveigle his way in, citing his desire to make sure Rey gets home safe, one withering look from the Wookie silences him. 

Besides, Maz’s reputation precedes her. Only a fool would assume the former Pirate Queen of Takodana, genial though she appeared, had mellowed in her dottage. Heads have come off at her bequest for far more minor crimes than hurting her foster-daughters.

That draws a weary smile to Rey’s lips. The Opera Ghost clearly has no idea who he is on the verge of crossing...

Rose holds Rey’s arm the entire journey. They watch Hanna City zip by in a blaze of shadow and colour. The sisters exchange a few murmured words, but any attempt at conversation falls away.

What Rose really wants to ask, she will wait until Maz and Chewbacca are out of earshot. Occasional sniffles still escape her, and Rey draws small, comforting circles on her sister’s skin.

When they arrive at the apartment block, Chewbacca walks them to the turbolift. Normally, Rey would take the stairs as she enjoys the exercise. But tonight, she feels weary down to her marrow, and lets Maz steer them into it without protest.

The turbo-life gives a pleasant hum on the way up. Its lights are almost blinding after the dark of that strange subterranean place.

But at least there are no shadows here.

================

Once Maz and Rose have finally left her in privacy, checking for the thousandth time that she is “all right”; once her rage has cooled marginally, a million questions flood Rey’s mind.

_ Why do you pretend to be a ghost? _

_ Why do I see you in my mirror? _

_ How do you know my song, and why do you play it with me? _

**_Who_ ** _ are you? _

She sits before the mirror, taps the glass impatiently, and waits. 

But no masked figure appears. Only her own face, shockingly pale, stares back at her. 

Her eyes begin to droop when there is a buzzing at her door. “Rey?” comes a bleary voice from the other side.

The door slides open, and Rose steps into the room. Her face is still puffy and eyes raw with tears. She wrings her hands into the hem of her green nightshirt. So dejected, so forlorn does she look, that Rey immediately leaps to her feet and bundles her sister into her embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Rose mumbles against Rey’s shoulder. Her voice is thick, on the edge of a sob. 

“Rose, I’m fine,” Rey says gently, tugging her sister to sit at the edge of bed. “What in the world do you have to be sorry for?”

“The fire… it was my fault. I think the Opera Ghost started that fire because he heard me talking about him. And then, when we got separated, and they couldn’t find you, and Tai thought he saw you disappear down a corridor…” She hiccups again, and the sound is so adorable yet tragic that Rey’s heart melts. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Rey shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she chides. “ _ You _ did not cause that fire; and I’m fine, really.” Soft fingers brush over the crown of Rose’s head. “I was just so scared for you. But we’re both here, we’re both alive, the Opera House didn’t burn down…” That teases a smile out of Rose. “Want to sleep here tonight?” 

They peel back the bedsheets, and lay facing each other on the bed. “Don’t you think we’re getting a bit old for this?” Rose says on a watery chuckle.

“Would you even care bantha spit if we are? ” Rey replies, reaching for his sister’s hand and holding it in a bruising grip. Rose shakes her head. “Me neither.”

“It’ll be a bit awkward when we’re both married,” she counters. “Need an awfully big bed to fit all four of us in!”

Giggles erupt from them both, until tears of a different flavour trail down Rey's cheeks and her sides ache with the simple act of  _ laughing _ . Perhaps tomorrow this will all feel like some strange hallucination.

“You know,” Rose adds once her composure has returned, “That day might come sooner than we expect.”

“I hope you haven’t been holding out on me, Tico?” Rey says with an arch of her eyebrows. “I thought I saw you making eyes at Kaydel the other day…”

“I meant  _ you, _ ” Rose retorts, eliciting a scoff from her sister. “Oh come on!” she adds through slanted eyes. “I saw how Tai was looking at you tonight. Not to mention how quickly he ran back into a burning building once he thought you were trapped.”

Rey rolls onto her back, and stares at the ceiling. “Don’t be absurd, Rose.”

“He’s not a Jedi anymore,” Rose says, leaning up on one elbow and forcing Rey to meet her eyes. “Come on! You can’t spend your entire life wedded to your music, Rey.”

As she drifts off, and tries to follow Rose’s fantasy to its inevitable conclusion, Rey still feels empty. Tai is sweet and kind; his eyes had sparkled with passion as he described his studies, and he had looked upon Rey as something precious. Was it just friendship she had seen in his gaze, or something more? 

She could imagine spending endless days chatting with him about history, him listening to her practice her music. It’s sweet, almost domestic… and utterly tepid.

She thinks of that burning passion she had felt playing the music from  _ Bastilla & Revan  _ with the Opera Ghost. It had felt essential to her very being. It had been more than a simple musical duet - it was a conflagration, a knitting together of kindred spirits, a whispered promise of something more…

Sleep comes uneasily, and she dreams of warm, reverent hands touching her, plucking the same beautiful music from her as from the strings of his violin...

================

The Opera House was always planned to lay fallow the day after a gala. The fire has no bearing on this, but Rey and Rose do receive a brief comm message from Finn Dameron to announce that there was no lasting damage, and rehearsals will continue as planned from the following day.

So they take advantage of the day.

Rose edicts an all-day ban on music and ballet. “My muscles are still sore,” she complains, massaging an aching calf; although there is a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, “And you played your entire soul out last night. One day’s rest and recuperation is not going to be the end of us!”

With only the mildest reluctance, Rey acquiesces to these demands.

Tai comes to the apartment in the early afternoon, but Maz politely sends him away after a few moments, citing this as a “family day”. He gives Rey a small basket of jogan berries from the local market. “I remember they were always your favourite,” he says, a blush staining his pale cheeks.

She gives his hand a reassuring squeeze in gratitude.

He promises to see her in the next few days at a more mutually convenient time. Her heart warms, but there is no flutter of first love like Rose expects. 

Rose finally gets her promised afternoon watching holomovies - silly, inconsequential comedies which have the sisters bellowing with laughter. Maz supplies them with jewel-fruit tarts, roast meats and rich spiced teas until Rey’s belly is full and her soul content. 

Of course, Maz then pulls out the old holoprojecter, and subjects her foster daughters to an evening reminiscing over old memories. It’s a distinctly maternal flavour of torment, but the fondest kind. Rey lets her eyes rove over that gaunt little girl who looks so lost in a pretty green dress and fancy surroundings. 

Young Rose looks equal parts bewildered and afraid in her earliest photos. The tang of grief still hangs over that little girl - she had come to live with Maz only a few weeks after the loss of her parents and her sister Paige.

As the girls in the images grow taller, their haunted eyes brighten, and forced smiles become genuine. They cling playfully to one another at the Junari Point beach; they chase each other around meadows of flowers; they scramble over the ruins of Takodana Castle with torn kneecaps and dust in their hair, and have never looked happier.

But even amidst filial teasing and the warm content of her family’s love, that dark lake beneath the surface of the Opera House still lingers in her mind. 

As she readies herself for bed, Rose finally secure enough to let Rey out of her sight, no masked visages appear in her mirror.

Sleep comes uneasily, and she wonders what will happen when she has to re-visit the Opera House tomorrow for  _ Batilla & Revan _ ’s rehearsal.

================

Rey’s return to the Opera House is almost anti-climatic.

There is no shadow lurking behind the Grimtaash statue in the foyer. No faces appear in the mirror when she ties her hair back before rehearsal. She almost scoffs. Truly, what had she expected? The Opera Ghost to appear in daylight, prostrate himself at her feet? 

Lingering scent of smoke from the fire aside, this feels just as ordinary as any other rehearsal day.

Until, that is, Rey sets foot in the rehearsal room.

Less than half the orchestra have arrived - not an unusual occurrence, as Rey prides herself on punctuality. Their chatter falls away when they spot her. A few of them point, and a cacophony of whispers seem to follow her as she grabs a mug of caf. Heat fills her face, flushing to the tips of her hair.

She heads towards her chair in the string section. Let them gossip all they want; she can focus on her music and drown out the rest of the world.

But when she reaches her chair; there is a small leather folder on the cushion, with a black envelope atop it.

Her eyes rapidly dart around the room; there are no shadowy figures lurking, and the novelty of staring at her seems to have worn off. She slips the folder and envelope into her satchel for later perusal.

Rose had told her that the Opera Ghost would leave hand-written notes for the managers. Notes that would mysteriously appear upon their desks even behind sealed doors. 

Notes delivered in a black envelope and signed O.G.

She is spared further inquiry by the appearance of C-3PO, their conductor droid. He quirks his golden head, and lets out a stream of nervous expletives. “Oh my, oh my,” he moans in that awkward, mechanical voice. “Where is the rest of the orchestra?” He throws his hands up in the air. “We will  _ never  _ be ready for opening night at this rate!”

No-one casts him a second glance. His central processing core is powered as much by anxiety as by his internal battery. Catastrophes are his fuel. 

Whilst he frets in the background, Rey begins to tune her harp. So entrenched in the task, she does not notice when a figure slips into the chair beside her until a thin voice fills her ear.

“First Harpists can afford a harp with actual in-built tuning, you know.”

Rey turns to glare at Armitage Hux. “This one has that functionality too,” she grouses. “I just prefer to do it myself.”

He laughs; a condescending chuckle that fills her with irritation. His thin lips contort into a smirk. “So, between us harpists,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper, “Were you really kidnapped by the Opera Ghost?”

Rey’s concentration falters; her fingers slip and she hits a discordant note. That only seems to widen the ginger irritant’s smug grin.

“Your sister was in hysterics,” he continues, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands upon his crown. “Running around crying and screaming that the Opera Ghost had taken you as his bride. Dear me, she _clearly_ cannot handle her alcohol!”

“Say what you want about me, Hux,” Rey says in a dark tone, her eyes aflame with rage; “But do not  _ ever _ speak of Rose like that again.”

“Why, what are you going to do?” he taunts, savage pleasure evident on his face. He leans closer, until she is almost choked by the scent of his cologne, can almost feel his caf-breath on her skin. “Run off to your ghostly lover and cry? Have him haunt me or threaten me?”

Suddenly, Rey feels the sensation of eyes  _ burning _ into her. A rage emanating from more than herself bubbles within her. She tenses, and awaits a whispered threat into her mind.

But there is only her own thoughts, punctuated by Hux’s ongoing laughter.

================

Throughout their fraught rehearsal, Hux continues to shoot derisory glances at Rey. When they break for lunch, she watches his lover Temmin Wexley, the orchestra’s First Violinist, pull him aside. Whilst she cannot hear their words, she can discern they are about her. Wexley pokes a finger into Hux’s chest, and the ginger irritant flushes until his face is as scarlet as his hair.

In the mess, Rey finds a table in the far corner. It has only one other occupant - a percussionist called Amilyn with vibrant purple hair and a collected demeanour. She and Rey sit at opposite ends of the bench, but eat in an almost companionable silence.

As she is sipping her post-meal caf, Rey watches warily as Wexley approaches their table. 

“Sorry about Armie,” he tells her, with surprising sincerity in his tone. “I love him, but he doesn’t always know when he’s gone too far. He won’t bother you again.” And then he shuffles away.

“Kriffing nerf-herder,” Amilyn mutters behind her cup. Rey, who had taken a gulp of caf, suddenly splutters. Liquid comes out her nose, and Amilyn has to apply a few firm back-slaps to stifle her choking. “Sorry,” she says, passing Rey a napkin. “Can I give you one piece of advice when it comes to Hux?” The younger woman nods. “Good. Now, as asinine as this sounds… Take his behaviour as a compliment. Hux only tears apart people he feels threatened by. And you are a far more talented musician than he is.” 

Rey smiles at the compliment. It stills her temper throughout the afternoon portion of rehearsal, even Hux continues to glare at her. But his poison tongue remains silent.

For now, at least.

================

C-3PO is a stickler, a perfectionist, and the biggest nuisance this side of the Core. But he is a loth-kitten in comparison to Madame Giry.

Even down the hallway, the orchestra can hear her babbling and barking at the ballerinas. She warns them that she will make them dance until midnight if she has to, until they get the movement right.

Rey’s feet ache in sympathy for Rose.

Even after the orchestra has completed their rehearsal (only a “qualified success” in the words of their conductor), the ballerinas still practice. And Giry’s echoes suggest that their rehearsal’s end is not imminent.

Rey fishes around in her satchel for the parcel left on her chair this morning. The note she ignores for the moment. Whatever pretty, pleading or threatening words this faux ghost has for her, she is not in the mood to read.

Instead, she opens the leather folder. Contained within are a few loose sheets of music. The paper is heavy, and of the finest quality. There is no title to the piece, and every note is hand-drawn. 

Unconsciously, Rey begins to hum the melody. It is transcendent, bewitching in its beauty, and a pleasant warmth suffuses her entire being. She places it on her music stand, and begins to pluck the notes on her harp.

It sounds even more exquisite in the acoustics of the room than it did in her mind. A lilting, soft melody that feels like a lover’s caress. That notion does not still her hand, even as she furrows her brow. The music seems to fill every chasm in her soul, and it almost feels as though it was written  _ for  _ her.

Rose’s tall tales of the Opera Ghost - decidedly not a ghost, Rey knows now, but a man - whisper in her mind.  _ A musician. _

And clearly a composer too.

The music loses its splendor then. Though every note she plucks is perfect, the act is perfunctory.

_ Nothing  _ has ever ruined music for her before - not fatigue, not sadness, neither hunger nor thirst nor even the throes of a fever. But apparently the Opera Ghost can.

And as her hands fall away from the strings, a weary sigh escapes her.

_ I should head home _ , she thinks. Or at least wait in the ballet rehearsal room for Rose. Madame Giry will of course scowl and wail at her presence - the ballet mistress may bemoan and berate her charges, but Maker forfend anyone else acknowledge their faults as a dance troupe! Even the managers have been shooed away from particularly fraught rehearsals. 

Mid-contemplation, she digs around in her satchel and pulls out the black envelope. 

Rey turns it over in her hands a few times. She can almost feel the weight of the words contained within. Words with the power to shake her world, throw her off-kilter… 

She rips into the envelope with unnecessary force. The paper within is again of the highest quality, although a rather mundane cream in the colour. She scoffs at herself. What else was she expecting? Ancient vellum with words scribbled in blood? Clearly she has internalised Rose and the ballerina’s lurid fantasies. Plain black ink would  _ never _ do for the spectre that lurks behind every corner and pilfers their ribbons and ballet shoes.

The words are the work of a calligrapher, every letter neat and looping. Such beautiful handwriting… It had been an act of time and devotion to produce this letter.

_ My dearest Rey, _

_ I wish to apologise for the circumstances of our meeting. Though I have longed to share the same air with you for some time, I had planned a rather more conventional introduction. I had not reckoned with your own curiosity and determination - an error I will not make again when it comes to you. _

_ And as for the fire… I am sorry if I frightened you, or made you fear for either yourself or Rose. I could no sooner harm you than amputate my own hand. As a fellow musician, I am sure you appreciate the gravity of that statement. _

_ For you see, Rey… From the first moment I heard your music I was enraptured. Never had I encountered such a talented musician. Your fingers can turn even the most mediocre of melodies into aural goldust. Every note you pluck seems to resonate within my very soul. _

_ There is a connection between us; one I want to better understand. I know you feel it too. Perhaps you even fear it; but I do not. How can something like this betwixt two kindred souls such as us ever be anything other than pure? _

_ My actions of the other night will not stand me in your good graces. Truly, I understand that. But I hope this small piece - one I composed especially for you - will serve as a token of my apology. _

_ If you can find it in your heart to extend a hand of forgiveness, I would like for us to meet. No shadows, no tricks. _

_ Come up to the balcony, after your rehearsal. I will be there, and perhaps we can simply talk. _

_ Please consider my offer. _

_ Yours, _

_ O.G.  _

Her fingers graze the fine calligraphy as she re-reads his note. 

_ Do you think to bribe your way into forgiveness by composing me a piece of music? _

Even if it is a devastatingly beautiful melody...

Anger bubbles within her again. She had allowed Chewbacca to sweep her away before she could truly confront this false spectre. The sheer presumptiveness that her anger could be quelled with a few notes and a hand-written letter…

She stuffs the note into her trouser pocket. And then, she marches towards the man foyer. Under the watchful eye of the Grimtaash, she climbs the stairs. The chattering tones of Madame Giry echo even here, as she barks more orders at her erstwhile charges.

Her hand hesitates but a moment at the doorway to the balcony. Dusk approaches, painting the sky in hues of purple and red. Even in the fading light, shadows may lurk.

But Rey has no fear of shadows. Not when her body thrums with rage.

And so she steps onto the balcony.

Autumn air snaps at her cheeks, and a breeze whips stray tendrils of hair into her eyes. Below are sounds of a city at the cusp of evening: speeders taking the workers home, chatter from cafes and restaurants filling with patrons and the quieting songs of birds.

Her eyes dart around, seeking any spectre that might be lurking in the shadows. 

**“You came.”**

Even through the modulator, Rey can sense the relief in his voice. She sucks in a breath to steady herself and turns to look into the masked face of this supposed ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ReyloEndGame who kindly beta'd this fic and made a gorgeous mood board for it!


	4. Friend or Phantom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a heady thought… the idea of a soul tied to hers, a shared passion for music… Those brief duets with him had been a transcendent experience. A burn of a decidedly different flavour now fills her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating! Real life has been hectic (and sadly not in a good way), but I'm back and planning on updating all my WIPs.
> 
> Thank you for your continued support and reading!

The first thing Rey notes again about this false phantom is his height. He is a giant of a man, and even beneath the long cowl he wears, he is clearly broad as well.

Not a single inch of skin is visible. Leather gloves - which creak with every movement of his fingers - cover his hands. His tunic is buttoned to the neck, suffocatingly tight. And that horrid mask conceals even his eyes.

He might not be a man, she thinks. He could easily be a droid. Or a monster.

**“I was worried,”** he says, **“That you might not come.”**

“Perhaps you ought to listen to my reason, before getting overly excited,” she snaps at him. His head jerks subtly, and Rey thinks he might have _flinched._

_A man_ , she decides. Definitely a man. 

Her lips part to speak again, but he holds out a gloved hand to her. 

A hand which flutters just slightly, but enough for Rey to know he is nervous.

**“Not here,”** the man/Opera Ghost/charlatan says. **“We are too exposed.”**

“Well, I refuse to traipse down to your little… dungeon!” Her voice is hard as flint. She gestures to the space around them. “We will talk here, or I will leave. Your choice.”

He shakes that horrible masked head. **“There is a third option. There are certain… chambers, hidden within the fabric of the building. They are far closer and far more private. I would not wish us to be overheard.”**

“Ah.” Even as she tries to maintain her furious demeanour, Rey cannot help but nod. So that is how he appears to move unseen around the building. It’s a rather mundane explanation. But even then, he was able to immobilise her without a touch. Almost like…

“Are you Force-sensitive?” she asks suddenly.

There goes that little flinching motion again. **“Not here,”** he repeats. He has yet to lower his hand. The leather creaks as he curls his fingers slightly.

Every instinct within Rey screams at her to leave; to storm away from this dangerous madman and go home. 

But something within her demands vengeance. She will not be satisfied until she has wounded him with her words, expunged him like a poison coursing through her bloodstream. 

Maz had always warned Rey that there was a volatility within her. _“The moment you see red,”_ her foster mother’s voice purrs into her mind. _“Your common sense abandons you.”_

Well, that at least would explain why she had chased the so-called Opera Ghost down the hallway of a building on fire. And why she had been foolish enough to come here in the first place.

She gives him a curt nod. “Promise me that, when I choose, I am free to leave.”

Only after he nods does she allow him to lead her away from the balcony door. His hand rests on the forearm of one of the golden statues lining the balcony. Her lips curl into a frown, but before she can question him further, he yanks the arm hard.

With a scraping slowness, a panel on the wall behind slides open. 

A wave of smugness rolls off the Opera Ghost. He gestures to the dark passageway revealed, with the air of a magician proud of his little trick. 

**“Ladies first.”**

=========

Once the panel has replaced, Rey finds herself plunged into darkness for a moment.

Then, the Opera Ghost snaps his fingers, and artificial light floods the passageway. 

**“Come,”** he says. **“We are not far from our destination.”**

They walk in sullen silence for a few minutes. Rey takes those moments to observe him. During their initial meeting, he had moved with the grace of a loth-cat hunting its prey. But now, he is almost hesitant, shuffling; she senses a coiling tension within him.

The passageway is as stark as much of his home; grey panels, devoid of colour save the sickly yellow haze of the lighting. They are probably the only living people to have walked this path for generations.

**“Here,”** he says suddenly. Rey looks at the panels around them. They appear just as non-descript as the rest of the passageway, and she wonders how he is so certain that this is the place. But then he waves a hand over one, and it slides open. 

He leads her into a small room; an entire wall is taken up by a stained transparisteel window, creating pools of purple and red light at their feets. She vaguely recognises the design from the frontage of the Opera House. Were she here with anyone else, she would marvel at the beauty of it. But with this faux-phantom as her companion, her guard is too raised to fully appreciate it.

The room is bare save a durasteel bench against one wall. Rey sits cross legged at one corner, and gestures for the Opera Ghost to sit opposite.

He mimics her posture, and that strange modulated sigh escapes him once more.

Before they speak, Rey draws in a deep breath and tries to centre herself. Her mind casts out, seeking even the merest suggestion of danger. But all she picks up from him is a bone-deep weariness, coloured with gratitude that she has at least demonstrated a willingness to talk to him. 

**“Did you… like the music?”** he says. The way his giant body curls in upon itself is almost shy. 

“We’re not here to talk about your skills as a composer,” Rey snaps. His shoulders sag, and she almost feels a flicker of guilt for wounding his pride. She sighs, and rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “It was… lovely,” she says evenly. She imagines him flushing beneath his mask. “Thank you for giving it to me… But I _am_ still furious, and a pretty melody won’t change that.”

He inclines his head slightly as if in agreement. Gods, how frustrating that she cannot see his face! 

“Since we’re alone now,” Rey says, hoping he does not pick up on the slight waver in her voice, “I’d like you to take off your mask.”

A different sound escapes the helmet’s modulator. From the way he rubs his gloved hand over its crown, Rey thinks it might be a groan. **“I told you… I cannot remove it. Please, do not ask it of me again.”**

At first, Rey wants to snap at him. But then she remembers the strange, helmeted bounty hunter who would visit their home every few years, with a painfully adorable green-skinned infant at his side. Maz would always hurry her foster-daughters away at his appearance, and she and Rose would spend hours with his child-companion (whose name they never learned), who cooed and burbled at their every attention. Rey would play her harp, and Rose would swing the child with her in a wild dance. Eventually, once their business was concluded (and Rey never questioned the nature of said business), the bounty hunter and Maz would join them, and laugh at their childish antics.

But the bounty-hunter would never remove his helm.

_“He’s a Mandalorian,”_ Maz had explained. _“Their creed does not permit the removal of their helmet in front of strangers. He is a genial sort, but do not ask it of him even in jest, lest you cause him great offence.”_

Rey was many things - head-strong, independent, occasionally curt, and a little too easy to react with anger when provoked. But Maz had never raised her to be disrespectful of the culture of others. Concealment of his identity may be the by-product rather than intent. So she chooses, for the moment, not to push the mask issue.

“All right, keep it on,” she says, and watches his posture relax minutely. “But could you at least turn the vocal modulator off? It’s a bit distracting.”

And thus, Rey enters the strangest negotiation of her life.

Yes, he _could_ turn the modulator off, but that would involve removing the helmet to do so, thus he cannot. Unless...

_No_ , she is most assuredly not willing to let him _blindfold_ her to facilitate that.

Perhaps _she_ could tie the blindfold herself; but can _he_ trust _her_ not to sneak a peek?

_No_ , she is not waiting outside the room whilst he does it.

Five minutes of circular arguments later, it is the faux Opera Ghost who emerges victorious. Mask and modulator are to remain on. Rey grouses, and decides she will have to work on her negotiating skills before she tries to engage her errant companion in a battle of wills again.

Given she can neither see his face nor discern his tone behind his disguise, the man seems to radiate smug triumph; this only serves to heighten Rey’s irritation. 

“So, I guess you’re clearly not a ghost?” She says, hoping to inject just the right amount of venom into her voice.

A nod. **“That is correct.”**

“Then, can I at least know your name?”

He hesitates, inclines his masked head. **“Ben.”**

Such a normal name. What other moniker had she expected? She tests it on her lips. “Ben.”

A strange frisson of delight punctures her annoyance. She blinks, and wonders where that discordant emotion had come from. It takes only a moment to realise it had originated from him.

“How are you doing that?” she says, surprised at how little heat there is in her voice. She has to remind herself who this person is… A man masquerading as a spectre, a vandal, an arsonist whose actions could easily have led to injury or death. 

Whether he has read her thoughts, or whether this bleed of his emotions into hers is a two-way exchange… He does not seek further elaboration.

**“It began the first night we played together,”** he says. **“I’ve never…”** Another strange sound - a huff maybe? - before he continues. “ **My entire life, there has been a melody echoing in my mind. It’s in my soul; I think it’s probably burned onto my heart. In the blackest of nights, it has comforted me. And then, one night when I was wandering the Opera House, I heard it aloud.”** He gestures meaningfully in her direction. **“You were playing it. I thought it had stumbled into a dream… Tell me Rey, where did you learn that song?”**

His words are not entirely unexpected. She imagines his eyes - dark eyes in her mind, always so patently emotive - to be brimming with eagerness. 

How she answers him now… this feels like the moment that may alter her destiny. So she hesitates, searches for the right words beneath her now cooling fury. 

“I don’t remember,” she says slowly. “I suppose I’ve always known it, ever since I was a little girl. Would you think me naive if I told you that I thought I made it up myself?”

**“I would never think that of you,”** he - _Ben_ \- says; how frustrating to hear him speak without a tone to guess at his meaning. Sarcastic, arrogant, or simply earnest? **“I once thought the same… But I think that melody has existed within me - and you - from the beginning of the Universe. I think we were always meant to play it together.”**

It’s a heady thought… the idea of a soul tied to hers, a shared passion for music… Those brief duets with him had been a transcendent experience. A burn of a decidedly different flavour now fills her.

“What do you want from me?” 

Perhaps he blinks. Perhaps his lips curl into a smile. Or perhaps his face remains as impassable as his mask. **“I had thought that would have been obvious.”**

“Well, it _obviously_ isn’t,” Rey snaps, feeling a flush creep across her face and neck. An ache begins to niggle behind her eyes, and she rubs two fingers and a thumb across her brow.

**“I want to teach you.”**

Now _, that_ was not the answer Rey expected; she stares at him, slack-jawed for a moment. 

He takes her silence as a cue to continue. **“On the balcony, you asked me if I was Force-sensitive. The answer is yes. And you are as well.”** Even without access to his tone, Rey knows this is a statement rather than a question. 

“My foster mother thinks I am,” she concedes. “She thinks my musical talent comes from the Force.”

Another strange mechanical sound escapes him; Rey thinks it might be a snort. **“You practice more than any musician in this Opera House.** **_No one_ ** **is as dedicated to their craft as you are, Rey.** **_That_ ** **is why you are the most talented harpist - nay, the most talented musician - I have ever encountered. The Force has nothing to do with that.”**

A semblance of a smile plays on Rey’s lips. “And yet, you want to teach me?”

He shakes his head. **“You misunderstand me, Rey. I doubt there is much more anyone could teach you about music, save perhaps the goddess of music herself.”** There is a hesitance before he speaks again - she hears the creak of leather as he clenches and unclenches his fist. The air seems to fizzle with nervousness - his, hers, or a swirling melody of both? **“But I can teach you about the Force.”**

If his initial offer of tuition had been a surprise, this one left her somewhere between flabbergasted and astonished. 

**“The other night… with no formal training, you somehow managed to play your harp without as much as a touch.”** The crackle in the air changes, and feels a jolt of excitement along her spine - _his_ excitement. **“Such** **_raw_ ** **power, wielded with such precision and delicacy… I have** **_never_ ** **borne witness to it in all my years.”**

_If I wanted to learn about the Force, there is another who could teach me. One who doesn’t threaten people or set fire to the Opera House._

Instead, Rey says aloud, “And, you want to, what exactly? Teach me how to do something I accidentally pulled off anyway? Or are you planning on indoctrinating me into the Jedi ways and having me run across the galaxy swinging a laser sword and smiting evil?”

Ben, the Opera Ghost, or _whoever_ he is shakes his head vehemently. **“The Force does not belong to the Jedi - their greatest hubris is the assumption that it does. Besides, I suspect they would deem such a use of the Force to be frivolous. And as to your earlier point… whilst you are powerful - I can sense it radiating off you - i would argue that what you achieved was little more than beginners luck.”**

Pounding fills her ears as she feels her anger rising. “You presume to enlist me as your pupil by insulting me?” She leaps to her feet. 

Her companion raises his hands in a mollifying gesture; but it does nothing to quench the fury within her. **“Forgive me, I did not intend to wound your pride.”**

Then, like a dousing of cold water, Rey remembers exactly _whom_ she is talking to. How easily and quickly she had gotten lost in him. **S** he almost wants to cackle at the ludicrousness of it all. “Forgive me, _Opera Ghost_ ,” she says acidly. “For expecting civility from a creature in a mask who haunts and hurts people. I was a fool to have ever come here.”

She spins on her heels as if to leave; only to note that the door panel had slid closed. Her fingers hover over the activator but the panel remains resolutely closed.

_So much for a grand exit,_ she grouses.

“Am I to be your prisoner?” Rey asks, balling her fists and refusing to face the Opera Ghost. Though her heart thundered beneath her breast, she would not allow him to know her fear.

**“I told you that first night… You are my guest.”** His giant form sweeps past her, the hem of his cowl kissing her legs. With the same delicacy he must apply to his instrument, he enters the door code. It slides open with a hiss.

In contrast to the pools of coloured light in this hidden enclave, the harsh artificial light stings Rey’s eyes. She turns left to retrace their steps to the balcony, but suddenly his hand is upon her shoulder. She flinches, and he pulls away.

**“Shortcut,”** is all he says, leading her a few steps to the right.

Curiosity and irritation battle within her; she wants to know _how_ he has learned all of the secrets of this building, how many more hidden passageways and chambers there are… Even as she reminds herself that this presumptive, dangerous man is neither her friend nor confidante. No matter how almost _shy_ and hesitant he had seemed around her. 

The remainder of their walk is silent save the echo of their footsteps on the floor, and the constant creak of his leather gloves as he balls and unballs his fist. That malignant grace she had noted at their first meeting is gone; he shuffles wearily, and again she feels that brush of his emotions against hers. An aching hasm of loneliness, of longing…

Her eyes snap back to the mask; and she wonders if this is more than simply a means to conceal his identity, but if he hides behind it to conceal _himself_. 

Unfortunately, whether it is a consequence of his Force sensitivity, or hers, his every emotion is being broadcast to her. Disappointment that she has not accepted his offer of teaching; frustration and rage at himself for his perceived catastrophic mishandling of the situation.

But at its heart, a chasm of loneliness so deep it stings in Rey’s own heart.

He halts before another non-descript durasteel panel. With a conjurer’s flourish he waves a gloved hand, and the panel slides upon. He gestures for Rey to step through, and she emerges into a corridor just off the main foyer. 

He quirks his head as if to say, “I told you so.”

A polite nod is her only response before she turns to walk away.

**“Rey.”**

The sound of her name in his modulated tones causes her to turn her head back towards him.

**“Please… Will you at least think about my offer?”**

That well of pity stirs within her, though it does not quench her anger at him for his prior misdeeds. She nods. “I will.” Then, with her eyes facing away from him, she whispers, “Goodbye Ben.”

The panel slides back into place with a hiss.


End file.
